Chapter 6
It was true the town of Cocklesham had two inns. But it was also true they were both very small and neither one was entirely appropriate for a woman of his betrothed’s status.
Godric chose the better of the two options—although not better by much—but it was not the sort of place where he could leave her unattended in her room and spend his evening in the taproom.
He registered them as plain Mr. and Mrs. Fleming, and was able to convey to the rather slovenly innkeeper that he would not be easy to deal with should any of the louts who were loitering around the premises find their way to the third floor of the inn, where he and Eva had taken the only two adjoining rooms, but no private parlor.
Godric had briefly thought to ask for a local lass to act as Eva’s maid, as he’d done the night before, but he could see there was little chance of finding anyone respectable in the establishment. Instead, he waited until the innkeeper led them to their rooms, pressed a coin in his none-too-clean hand, and closed the door firmly after ordering hot wash water and two covers to be laid for them on the table in the larger of the two rooms. Once the man was gone, Godric checked the door and found the lock was broken. When he went to investigate the other chamber, he found the same condition there.
“This is not what I would have liked,” Godric began when he came back to find Eva standing exactly where he’d left her. “I’d planned to give you privacy, but I fear I must keep the door open between us tonight. I will, of course, close it when you wash, but it would be unsafe to sleep in here without—”
“I understand,” she said, her easy capitulation surprising him. He could see by the smudges beneath her eyes that she was more tired than she let on. “I’m not sure I can stay awake until the meal arrives.”
They both glanced at the bed and Godric strode toward it and flicked back the sheet, grimacing. There were no vermin that he could see, but the bedding was stained and felt damp to the touch. He went to his room and took the well-worn blanket from the bed. It was faded but it smelled clean enough and was not musty.
He returned to her. “Why don’t you lie down on top of the blanket and I’ll cover you with this—it is dry and clean.”
She complied, as docile as a child in her exhaustion. Godric covered her with the blanket as she regarded him through sleepy eyes. “Now you don’t have a blanket.” A huge yawn distorted the last word.
“You needn’t worry about that. Get some rest. I shall be in the next room.”
Her eyes drifted shut before he even finished. Though it wasn’t cold, precisely, the room was excessively damp, which created a chill. So he fed more coal into her fire and stoked it into a blaze and then left the door between their rooms slightly ajar. He regarded his reflection in the fly-specked mirror that hung above the dresser. The man who peered back at him was as exhausted as Eva but looked at least four decades older. He almost felt as if he might be able to fall asleep, damp sheets or no. But he had a letter to write—one he’d avoided writing last night when he’d written to Eva’s father.
When the servant came with cans of hot water, Godric asked for a quill and paper, already mentally composing the painful missive he would have to send the duke.
* * *
Eva woke with a start. The room was strange, and the only light came from the other side of the door, which was partially open. It took her a moment to recall where she was. Yes, at the inn in Cocklesham. Lord Visel had given her his blanket and she’d fallen immediately asleep.
Her eyes strayed to the door and she recalled what he’d said: that he would keep the door between them open. A soft light glowed from the cracked door; so, he was awake. She turned onto her back and stared into the gloom above her head as sleep slowly dissipated. And then she remembered what he’d said in the carriage, about wanting to stop arguing.
She’d been surprised by his kind words; he’d looked almost friendly when he’d said he wanted to make their marriage less contentious. And that he would see to it she did not have to live in London. He was, she knew, simply exhibiting common sense. They must marry. When her father learned what she’d done, which he would, now that James had gone . . .
James.
Eva chewed her lip to keep from scowling; she tried not to be angry with him, but she was furious. If he’d just done as they’d planned—but, no, Visel never would have let that stand, and James must have known it.
It had all turned into a mess, and it wasn’t James’s fault. It was her fault. She told herself she’d bought Gabriel’s safety, even if the cost had been far higher than she’d expected. Still, Visel had told her she could live in the country—and choose her own cattle, and wear whatever she wanted. And he claimed to have an aunt who knew her way around a horse, so perhaps he wouldn’t be all stodgy about a wife who shared the same interest.
Eva felt a twinge of anticipation at the thought of never having to go to a ton party or wear a dratted ball gown for the rest of her life. She realized she was smiling and shoved back the blanket. Her gown was a wrinkled mess, but that hardly signified—she always made a mess of her dresses, which was one of the reasons she preferred breeches. The other was—
“Ah, you are awake.”
She started at the sound of his voice and turned.
Lord Visel was standing in the doorway between the rooms. He’d removed his drab overcoat and looked as fresh as a daisy in the clothing he’d been wearing all day—just as long as she’d been wearing her clothing. It never ceased to amaze her how she managed to stain, rip, lose—
He came into her room. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded.
His mouth curved into a genuine smile—not the mean, smirky look he’d given her all Season. “Has the cat got your tongue?”
Eva felt her face heat. “No, I’m still half asleep.” She gave him a squinty look. “As I recall from yesterday morning, you weren’t exactly chipper and cheerful when you just woke.” Good Lord—was that only yesterday?
“Ah, but then you don’t have a goose egg on the back of your head,” he pointed out, gingerly feeling the back of his skull and wincing.
Eva grunted.
“Come,” he said, extending one of the hands she’d been mentally rhapsodizing about earlier. “I’ve ordered some bread, ham, and cheese. We can serve ourselves.”
She stared at his hand until his expression became strained, and then took it, allowing him to help her to her feet. Which was when she realized he’d removed her shoes. She looked up quickly to find him watching. Always watching.
“I thought you might sleep more comfortably without your shoes. Are you cold, or do you want me to take your cloak?”
Eva hadn’t even noticed that she was still wearing it.
“I must have been tired,” she said, looking up at him as her fingers picked at the knot she’d managed to make.
“Here, let me.” His hands, warm and dry, moved hers aside and he looked down as he worked. “You’ve made quite a job of it,” he muttered.
Eva took the opportunity to study him. The candlelight softened the lines that proclaimed his age, making him golden. His lips were slightly parted as he focused his attention on the knot. They were fuller when he wasn’t sneering.
He glanced up suddenly and their gazes locked, his hands going still. Looking into a person’s eyes at such close range was a rare intimacy; looking into his eyes made the blood roar in her ears.
His pupils grew large and his nostrils flared. His breathing, she noticed from a long way away, sounded labored. She swayed toward him, feeling a pull that emanated from her chest, as if he’d sunk a hook into her and was reeling it in, reeling her in.
He shuddered, like something had struck him, and his hands came around her upper arms and held her steady—then moved her slightly away. From him.
They were both breathing hard, their eyes locked, Eva searching for an explanation for what had just happened.
An emotion she didn’t recognize spasmed across his face and he stepped back. “You should be able to untie the rest. There is a table set in my room,” he said, gesturing vaguely in that direction. “I’ve forgotten something. I’ll be right back.” He strode toward her door, opened it, and then closed it so softly behind him that she didn’t even hear the latch click.
Eva remained in the same place, frozen, the thud thud thud of her heart loud in her ears, every nerve in her body poised on the brink of... something.
She stared unseeingly at the door: What had all that been about?
* * *
What the devil had all that been about?
Godric glared at the door he’d just closed, as if it were to blame for the cockstand in his breeches.
Well done, Colonel Fleming, his inner critic mocked.
Oh, shut up.
He pressed the heel of his hand against an erection that was hard enough to break rocks and groaned at the pain/pleasure sensation.
Turn around, go back in, and take her. Why not? You’ll be married in twenty-four hours—unless you get lucky and trees fall across every road to Scotland.
Godric knew that was true, and yet . . .
He paced the length of the dim hall and then back, thinking grim thoughts to combat his lust.
Why combat it? Why behave like a guilty parson dipping into the church coffers? What difference does a matter of hours make?
He paused and leaned against the wall, considering his behavior. Only a few days ago he’d been willing to kidnap a married woman and complete the job of ruining her reputation. And now he’d become all noble about bedding a woman he’d be stuck with for the rest of his days. Really, what did it matter when he bedded her? Before the ring was on her finger—metaphorically speaking, since he had no ring—or after?
There’s a lad! Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve had a woman—weeks. Mounting her would calm you and clear your head.
Godric chewed the inside of his cheek; he wished he could head down to the taproom and continue drinking. Of course the four whiskeys he’d consumed while struggling to compose his damned letter were probably a large part of why he was currently as hard as granite and unable to control his rampant thoughts.
He absently noticed the wretched condition of his boots. He’d given his valet of almost twenty years—a man with the unfortunate name of Darling—the entire month to spend with his family. Mainly because he’d not wanted him frowning at Godric the whole time he’d plotted to kidnap and humiliate another man’s wife. Godric could only imagine how Darling’s face would look if he heard a chit fresh from the schoolroom had kidnapped him instead.
He groaned. What a bloody muddle this was.
That’s the first sensible thought you’ve had in ten minutes. It is a muddle—one of her creation. You might as well get something out of it: like satiated.
No, he told the lustful, nagging presence driving him. I know we shall be man and wife soon, and I’d much rather she doesn’t associate the loss of her maidenhood with dirty linen in a filthy inn.
What a romantic you’ve turned out to be.
Godric pushed off the wall; he’d already wasted enough time dithering in the corridor. He strode down the narrow, dingy hall toward the third door and yanked it open.
Eva was seated facing the door and looked up, pausing in the act of lifting a small piece of cheese to her mouth with her fingers.
His cock, which had begun to deflate, flared back to life at the sight of her plump, parted lips. Smug laughter echoed in his head.
She lowered the untouched food back to her plate as he eased into the chair across from her. “I’m sorry, I would have waited for you but—”
“No, I’m glad you didn’t.” He forced his mind away from his groin and looked across at her beautiful face, which currently wore a puzzled, questioning and innocent expression. “I needed to have a word with the innkeeper,” he lied, lifting the bottle of wine he’d ordered and sniffing its contents. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, but it wasn’t good, either.
“Wine?” he asked.
She hesitated and then nodded, pushing her glass toward him.
Her hesitation made him wonder how often she drank.
“I am soon to be married—surely I am old enough to merit a glass of wine.” Her wry tone sounded far older than her years, and her words made him realize she spoke the truth. So he poured her a glass.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You’d better use my name. It’s Godric,” he supplied, when she looked puzzled.
“Godric.”
Hearing his name come out of that beautiful mouth did nothing for the situation in his breeches.
He swallowed down his lust and forced himself to assemble a sandwich of the thick bread, country ham, and crumbly white cheese. Perhaps some food would help clear his mind of lustful thoughts.
“I don’t think I’ve ever known a Godric,” she said.
“Yes, well, there aren’t too many of us about, thank God.” He took a bite of his sandwich, grimacing at the dry, stale bread.
She put a small piece of food into her mouth, her actions dainty and precise, like those of a cat. “You don’t like your name?”
He took a deep swallow of wine to wash down the food. “No,” he said when he’d finished masticating the tough bread.
“Hmmm. I think it suits you.”
Well, what could he say to that?
“Do you think we shall have to stay here long?” she asked, and then took a drink, her lips twisting into a tight pucker.
Dear God. She is just an infant—she isn’t even old enough to drink wine.
“Godric?”
He looked up from her wine-reddened lips. “Hmm?”
“I asked how long you thought we’d be here?”
“Not past tomorrow morning, I’m sure.”
She glanced at the window, even though it was dark and shrouded with hideous green drapes. “It’s still raining.”
He took another bite, not bothering to dispute her observation.
“We could always go back to the main road.”
Godric gave up on the sandwich and tossed aside the dry, stale bread. He took a bite of ham, chewing while he considered her suggestion, which was one he’d thought of as well.
“If you’re worried about anyone seeing me, I promise I’ll stay hidden.”
Godric looked at her as he swallowed and washed down his food with more wine. He’d taken the side road for precisely that purpose, to keep her from view.
“Let’s wait and see what the weather is like in the morning,” he said mildly, not wishing to disturb the tenuous peace between them by shooting down her idea.
“You said your family seat is in this area?”
Godric pulled his gaze away from her mouth; he could not recall a time when he’d found the way a woman ate arousing.
He saw she was waiting for a response. “I’m sorry, what’s that?”
She frowned. “I asked if your family seat is in this area?”
“We passed the road to Cross Hall a mile or so out of Doncaster, so it is southwest of here.” Godric experienced the same bittersweet burn in his chest he always did when he thought about his now empty family home.
She finished the last drops in her glass and took one of the overripe strawberries from the small bowl and popped it into her mouth, sucking her thumb and index finger to clean off the juices.
He’d had some of the most skilled courtesans in the major cities of Europe perform for his pleasure, but none of them could hold a candle to this mere scrap of a schoolgirl. And what was worse? She wasn’t doing this to tempt him—she appeared to have no interest in flirtation at all. And certainly not with him, a man she openly loathed. She plucked up another berry and he could only stare, his cock pulsing with frustration beneath the table.
She saw his look and, thankfully, misinterpreted it. “Sorry,” she said, her cheeks coloring in a way that would make portrait painters fight to the death to capture her likeness. “Gabe says my table manners are savage.”
He flinched at the sound of the other man’s name and her strawberry-reddened mouth turned down at the corners.
“You aren’t going to get that look on your face every time I mention his name, are you?”
“I don’t know—what look is that?”
The muscles in her face seemed to shift and rearrange themselves. Her eyelids became heavy, her lips thinner, and he would have bet a pony her nose got longer, her delicate jaw suddenly squared.
Godric couldn’t help it, he laughed. “You’re remarkably good at that.”
Her face resumed its natural appearance in less than the blink of an eye and she put another berry in her mouth, chewing stolidly while fixing him with an unblinking glare.
Godric sighed. “No, I won’t give you that look whenever you mention your brother.” He hesitated and then said, “Whenever you mention Gabriel.” The name was like ashes in his mouth but he pushed past the juvenile urge to show it. “Nor will I demonstrate anything but respect for his wife, Drusilla, soon to be my sister-in-law.” He moved aside his unfinished plate and brushed his hands to clear any crumbs.
She held her empty glass toward him.
Godric frowned. “That does not seem like a wise idea.”
Her face took on the mulish expression he already knew presaged her digging in her heels.
“Very well,” he said, picking up the bottle and pouring. “Don’t get that look on your face,” he said, his words a mocking echo of hers.
To his surprise, she laughed. “What look?”
“No,” he said, setting down the bottle. “I’m not the aspiring thespian you are. I could not mimic your expression and do it justice. The only reason I said anything about the wine is because I can see you are not accustomed to drinking it.”
She took a deep gulp before setting down her glass. “I don’t usually drink wine,” she admitted, turning the glass round and round on the wooden table. “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had spirits plenty of times.”
Godric bit back a smile at her boastful tone. “Such as?”
She held up a hand and ticked off her fingers. “Brandy, Irish whiskey—”
“Who the devil would give a young girl hard spirits?”
“Nobody gave them to me. I took them.” She cut him a disarming grin. “I can tell you this because now my father won’t be able to punish me. But the inns in our part of Devon are no mystery to me.” She took a noisy slurp.
“You go drinking at your local inns.”
It was not a question, but she nodded.
“Why?”
“That’s where mills usually are—although sometimes they’re in barns and such.”
“Mills?”
She preened under his surprised glare and took another—too large—swig from her glass. One more mouthful would empty it. At this rate she would be under the table within the hour. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and smirked at him, reveling in her unladylike behavior. Godric suspected she believed such actions made her appear daring, sophisticated, and devil-may-care. In truth, they made her appear even younger than her nineteen years.
And also adorable.
He flinched away from that unwanted thought and said, “Let me guess, my brother-in-law-to-be takes you to such places?”
“Yes, Gabe’s not stodgy like my father, grandfather, or my uncle Cian or . . . or”—her eyes raked him as if he were an untidy lawn—“like every other man—like you for example.”
“Well, if you count not taking a woman to a fight as stodgy behavior, then you are correct: I am extremely stodgy. Pugilism is not a proper activity for any woman—especially not for an impressionable girl.”
She growled—actually growled at him. “I’m not a girl, my lord. Nor am I any more impressionable than any man my age. And what is so bad about watching two men box one another? How can you say it’s improper?”
“It’s improper for females because it is a male activity.” He gave her the smirk he’d learned annoyed her. “Or have finishing schools suddenly put pugilism on their list of accomplishments? Perhaps somewhere between needlework and watercolors?” Godric gave a genuine laugh at that.
Her eyes glinted dangerously and he knew he should stop teasing her.
“All jesting aside,” he said, banning the smirk from his mouth. “Mills and the places they occur are simply not safe for young ladies like yourself—or even for unworldly or unprepared males.”
“I cannot believe that you truly believe that. You, who have been on the Continent and at war? I know there are many women—even women of my class—who follow the drum. Surely a country at war is far more dangerous than a country inn during a mill?”
Unbidden, Lucia flashed through his mind, her hands covered in the blood of their child. Godric snuffed all thoughts of her—of them—quicker than a candle.
“That is hardly an apt comparison; that was war, not play.” He could barely force the hard, angry words through his lips. “Nor is it play for innocent young ladies to carouse at inns and mills. Do you even know what kind of men frequent such functions?” He hoped to God she didn’t know about some of the behaviors he’d witnessed while attending his share of raucous country mills.
“I am no innocent young lady to be coddled and suffocated,” she retorted.
Godric gave an ugly laugh. “Oh, what are you then, pray?”
Her nostrils flared like a lathered horse. “I am a woman—a woman with experience and knowledge of the w-world.” He snorted at the ludicrous claim and she made a noise like an infuriated hen. “You are an odious pig who knows nothing about me!”
“I know you are the last female in Britain who should be allowed to roam untethered through inns and mills. I can just see you hopping into the ring if the urge struck you. I am astounded your bro—”
“Don’t.”
Godric’s temper flared at her tone, but he left the issue of her idiotic brother alone. For now. “You’d better husband your memories of such reckless behavior because I forbid you to jeopardize your safety merely on a whim.”
She put down her glass with a thump. “I can see how things will be already.”
“Good, then I shan’t have to explain to you how things shall be, shall I?”
She leapt up and Godric followed as closely as her shadow. “You are going to be a tyrant—like—like Bluebeard or—or some other ogreish husband.”
Godric knew that now would be a bad time to laugh. Instead he fixed her with a calm, level gaze while she fidgeted, angry and frightened and ill at ease in her own skin. “You needn’t worry about locked rooms with all the bodies of my other wives, Eva. I’ve not lived at Cross Hall for almost two decades, and my parents would have taken issue with a room full of dead women.”
She stamped her foot, clearly unaware of how young it made her look. “You know what I mean. You will hem and hedge and control me until I am nothing but a colorless, simpering—” She stopped, her eyes wide and angry. Her jaw worked and her lips were parted but no words came out. Instead, she stared in mute misery, her breaths coming in shallow, sharp bursts. “I knew it would be the same—I knew marriage would be no different. I am always to be subject to another’s will, like some—some slave.”
Godric felt an odd tightening in the region of his heart—a powerful, and surprising, combination of sympathy, empathy, and raw lust. And not a little alcohol. She was so very young and untried by life, yet she had brought herself to a place from which there was no return. She would, without a doubt, become his wife. His wife. The picture those words evoked was not the woman in front of him, and he flinched away from the ghostly image of Lucia that was never too far from his mind.
“This marriage means I will only trade one master for another.”
Godric’s head whipped up at her mournful words and he closed the distance between them in two long strides, as if he could outrun his own relentless thoughts.
She had to crane her head back to look up at him, her eyes burning and her cheeks flushed. His hand moved of its own volition and cupped the sweet curve of her jaw, his body thrilling at the warm and unspeakable smoothness of her skin.
“I don’t wish to be your master, Eva,” he said, not entirely telling the truth: her body, he decided, was something he wished to master very much indeed. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, mesmerized by the deep blue of her eyes.
Her lids fluttered at his soft caress and the slightest tremor rippled through her body.
“Shhh,” Godric murmured, lowering his head and sliding his hand beneath her heavy mink-colored hair, cradling her fragile neck. He dropped a light kiss on her lips, which were even softer than he’d imagined. Her eyes had gone black and he recognized desire when he saw it.
Do it; take her. She will be your wife.
Godric started at the word wife, Lucia’s dark brown eyes and sweet smile coasting across his vision. His hand slid limply from behind her neck and he took a step back, her body swaying toward him.
“If you are finished eating, you should get to sleep,” he said gruffly. “We’ll be leaving at first light.”
She blinked up at him as she had earlier, when he’d woken her. But this time, when her eyes widened, the expression in them wasn’t confused or sleepy, but hurt.
Her perfect features shifted into a mask of loathing. “I hate you.”
Ah, so they were back to that.
Good. It was better that she hated him; there was less chance of his bending her over the table and fucking them both to ecstasy if she wanted to brain him with a poker.
Godric forced himself to give her a superior smile of amusement—the sort of expression guaranteed to turn any residual desire she might feel for him into detestation. “So you’ve said, sweetheart. Why don’t you do your hating in your own room, so that I might get some sleep?”
For a moment he thought she would snatch up the nearest weapon—a plate, a butter knife, even a wine goblet, and attack him. Instead she drew herself up with the dignity of a duchess and dropped an icy curtsy.
“Good evening, my lord. I wish you pleasant dreams.” She exited the room with a back as stiff as a plank, only spoiling her cold exit when she slammed the door hard enough to knock a piece of damp plaster off the stained wall beside it.
Godric inhaled until his lungs felt as if they might explode and then held the breath for a long moment before noisily expelling it.
Well done, my lord. Weren’t you the one who said just this morning that you’d prefer not to fight and scuffle every day?
“Oh, get stuffed,” he muttered to himself, filling his still half-full glass of wine until the liquid touched the brim.
It was going to be a long bloody night.
* * *
It was full dark when Eva woke up, and she had no idea where she was—at Exham? In London? Her eyes flickered to the small window covered with thin, ragged curtains; no, this was somewhere else. This was—
Godric.
It all flooded back to her: abducting him, arguing with him, and then, tonight, throwing herself at him.
Ugh. Eva shuddered at the memory of earlier this evening. She reached toward the nightstand for her pocket watch, which Godric, no, Visel, had allowed her to keep when he’d taken the rest of her things. She checked the time: amazingly, she’d been asleep for only a few hours and it was not yet two.
Eva sat up, which was when she noticed the soft candlelight flickering beyond the cracked door. He must have opened the door because she’d slammed it shut upon leaving him. Something about the thought of him spying on her as she slept gave her a tight feeling in her stomach. She pushed back the blankets and winced as her feet hit the cool, clammy wooden floor. The fire in the grate was glowing hotly, so he must have come in to stoke the fire.
That was considerate of him.
Eva’s eyebrows slammed together at the unwanted thought. Godric Fleming was a toad without a considerate bone in his body. If he opened the door, he’d have his own reasons for doing so. Besides, she hadn’t asked him to take care of such things—she could take care of herself; she refused to be grateful. Especially to such a bossy, superior, odious—
She ground her teeth together to stop the buildup of anger inside her. She really needed to gain control of her emotions or he would continue to prod and poke and manipulate her as easily as a child.
She tiptoed toward the door, which was open enough for her to make out that he wasn’t in his bed. He was sitting in the same chair he’d occupied earlier, but he’d shifted it slightly until it almost faced her, as if he might have been watching the door, although he was not doing so right now.
No, he was most certainly not watching her right now.
Eva swallowed so noisily she was astounded he didn’t hear it—but it was clear that his current thoughts were elsewhere. His head was tipped against the back of the chair, allowing her an uninterrupted view of the powerful column of his throat and the broad V of golden, muscular chest that was exposed by the open neck of his shirt.
That alone would have been enough to make her bones turn to water, but then there was his hand. A hand that was stroking softly over the front of his buckskins.
Eva pivoted sharply away from the door and sagged against the wall, fighting to catch her breath. She knew what he was doing because she’d done the same thing to herself time and again. Oh, not exactly the same thing, of course, but it was the same, really—only their bodies were different. Eva swallowed convulsively, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest. What he was doing was private. Perhaps the most private thing a person could do. To watch him would be wrong—despicable.
It would also be delicious.
She bit her lip at the hard throb between her thighs, pushed her hair off her face so that none of it would interrupt her view, and turned back to the cracked door.
The view had become even more entrancing while she’d been wasting precious moments dithering. Now he was lazily rubbing his chest with the hand not busy on his breeches. His movements were smooth and sensual, his fingers splayed as he stroked in large circles, slipping beneath the edge of the fine linen, pushing it open to expose a small, dark pink nipple.
Eva had to swallow almost constantly to keep from drooling. Of course she knew men had nipples, but she’d never really given any thought to that fact before.
The tips of his fingers brushed the small disc of flesh and he gave a low groan, his body tensing and his hips arching off the chair.
Eva didn’t know which shocked her more, his body’s reaction to the slight touch, or hers. Her own breasts had tightened in response, seeming heavier, the soft cotton of her nightgown feeling like rough burlap against the hard points of her nipples.
Each stroke of his hand and his body’s concomitant response made the part between her thighs—her sex, Mia had unabashedly called it—swell and ache.
Her eyes had been so riveted to his chest and her own body’s response that she’d failed to notice he’d flicked open his fall.
Dear Lord.
Her chest froze as he lifted his hips and nudged the supple buckskin down just far enough to expose—
Steam clouded her vision as she saw his erect male organ. It emerged from the bunched-up linen like some sort of sleek, dangerous sea monster emerging from beneath the waves.
Eva breathed through her mouth, as if she couldn’t get enough air through her nose, as his hand—that beautiful masculine hand she’d been admiring—slid around the thick, ruddy shaft and gave it a firm stroke.
A hiss of pleasure broke from his clenched teeth and his hips thrust up, his expression almost one of pain as he held himself still, arched, and impossibly erect.
The edges of Eva’s vision blackened, reminding her to breathe, and her eyes burned, reminding her to blink.
He made a guttural noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh and then lowered his hips back to the chair, his hand sweeping back up the silken shaft until he reached the top, which was glistening with moisture. He casually rolled his palm over the fat, bell-shaped crown before stroking back down to his root.
The gesture was the most erotic sight Eva had ever seen. She distantly realized that her thighs were sticky. When she clenched the muscles in her legs, her eyes crossed at the sensations that cascaded outward from her sex. She grabbed her mound over her nightdress and squeezed hard, as if that might stop the unraveling sensation that had begun inside her. But it only made it worse.
So did the way his hand moved over his organ, with confident strokes that were all the more arousing for their businesslike efficiency. Godric was supremely comfortable in his skin and his actions proved it. He took pleasure from his body like a man who knew what he wanted and how he wanted it.
Eva prayed for it to go on forever: the thrusting, the flexing of his muscles that occurred with each stroke, the mottling of his skin, the roughness of his breathing, and especially the fascinating transformation taking place in his breeding organ. His shaft seemed to have become thicker, longer, and the flared crown glistened wetly beneath the flickering light cast by two candles.
He began to grunt with each thrust, louder and louder, his motions jerky and the muscles in his forearms bulging beneath the skin. And then, suddenly, he froze, hips thrust, buttocks tight, his organ—his cock—moving even though Godric’s hand was motionless. The shaft convulsed as he ejaculated, which was what her stepmother had called it: ejaculation. The word was dirty and mysterious, but the actual act was so much more erotic.
His body shuddered and the jerks became less intense, the small geyser erupting more weakly with each wave that rocked his body, until Godric’s hips sank down in the chair and his head began to lift.
Eva squeaked and launched herself across the room, tripping on the hem of her too long nightgown and landing headfirst in the musty-smelling bedding. She flipped onto her side, her face away from the door, and focused every particle of her being on breathing in and out, slowly, and evenly.
There were slight sounds of movement from the other room and then a shadow appeared in the shaft of pale light that shone against the wall in front of her: a man-shaped shadow. He seemed to stay there for a hundred years, but it was probably only a few seconds. Only when he moved away did she realize she’d been holding her breath and expelled it slowly from between pursed lips.
She shivered at the thought of what he would have done if he’d opened his eyes and caught her staring and panting. If she lived to be one hundred years old, she’d never forget it.
It had been beyond foolish!
It had, there was no denying that. But Eva couldn’t be sorry for what she’d seen.
Not even if it meant she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight.
Not even if facing him tomorrow was going to be impossible.